


Amateur Cartography

by stonecarapace



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Maps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:29:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecarapace/pseuds/stonecarapace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Russell likes Hugh Jackman and maps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amateur Cartography

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Les Mis RPF kinkmeme](http://lesmisrpf.livejournal.com/641.html?thread=2177#t2177). I'm working off the assumption that the Toulon-era scenes were filmed later/last, which may be totally bunk.

"You've really outdone yourself this time."

Hugh laughs, shaking his head a little, like it's nothing—but Russell means it. "You keep talkin' like that, I'll give it to you." 

"Nah," Russell says. He's already buzzed from the gesture; god help him if Hugh's actually showing him this with the intention of giving it to him. "Where the hell'd you find it?"

They're both holding the map, Hugh at one end and Russell at the other, sharing it between them. It's a map of Paris in 1815, on paper that's new but is made to look older than it is. When Russell bends down to get a better look, he catches a whiff of ink and a musty paper smell and something that's probably Hugh's cologne. It's a bloody fantastic map. Maybe he'll find a copier around here and make himself one. 

"A friend," Hugh says. It's so vague that Russell wonders what kind of trouble he went to for it. "Seriously, Russ, you want it?" And then he's pushing the map onto him, relinquishing his hold on it, and he's smiling and persistent and hell, it could've been free for all Russell cares, it's doing things to his gut to have it passed on so willingly to him.

It occurs to Russell, not for the first or last time, that Hugh was a fucking great choice for Valjean. Grace all through his body, a charity that is a buffer between them—though it isn't grace that is inspired in Russell when Hugh pats his shoulder and the tips of his fingers brush along his neck. 

Russell would like to kiss him. Instead, he squeezes his arm and thanks him, laughing as a buffer, piss-poor one that it is.

*

They're sitting side-by-side on the edge of the set, waiting for their turn. In the breaks between takes, they sing each other through their warm-up exercises and nudge each other's shoulders in a friendly sort of way. After an hour, Hugh disappears, leaving Russell wondering where he's off to—probably a piss. Russell watches as Sam works her way through a scene for the eleventh time, and Christ, it can get tedious like this, but he knows just how draining it can be in front of the cameras, so he considers himself lucky for now. 

Hugh announces his return by touching Russell's elbow, and then he shows him a notebook and pen. It's something to do, anyway. They support it between them and take to doodling shit back and forth, just a game of Hangman first and then crap that wouldn't be funny if it weren't done with Hugh. Between takes, some of the crew and other actors poke their noses in and chuckle along with them, deliberately suggesting Z's and Q's to try and finish off the hangman or adding flourishes to their drawings; Hugh welcomes them in as he welcomes everyone, half-flirting, always smiling, his voice sing-song in a deliberate way that means he's still half-Valjean, half-Jackman. Russell kind of wants them to fuck off. At least he has the sense to know it's one of the pettiest thoughts he's had in a while. 

Then, as Sam is busy singing her heart out, Hugh turns to a clean page and draws a border around the whole page. Russell cocks his head, curious. What now? Hugh sketches quickly, with lines that are skewed but don't shudder, confident as always. Russell rests a hand on Hugh's back. He wants to say _I'm going to fuck you,_ because he knows Hugh would take it with grace and they would make it a joke and then they would go somewhere private and make it happen. Instead, he keeps his mouth shut and his hand against the small of Hugh's back and watches as Hugh draws a quick map of the world, giving countries exaggerated peninsulas and penning quick mountain ranges whenever he remembers them. He gives the Pacific Ocean an old-style sea monster that winks and sticks its serpentine tongue out at them, then hands the pen over to Russell.

They take turns filling the map with jokey crap, but they both avoid France. Russell's a little nervous about adding anything to it, and Hugh seems content to draw detailed beavers in Canada and penguins in Antarctica and everything between. When they can talk between takes, Hugh leans close, lowers his voice so only Russell can hear, and says, "It's a good thing we're not cartographers, mate." 

Soon after, Javert and Valjean are on duty, and Russell forgets the notebook, remembering only the faint sensitivity of his hand where he touched Hugh and was warmed by him. They run through take after take, and finally the day is over, and they're all scattering, talking in scraggly groups despite being too tired for it. Before Hugh ducks out for the night, he approaches Russell and pats his chest—his hand slips inside the open coat, against Russell's chest, and Russell laughs instead of hitching a breath of surprise, and then the hand is gone and Hugh is waving with a tired smile. 

It's only when Russell is back in his trailer and shrugging off his coat that he notices the crinkling of paper in the inner pocket of his coat. Their map of the world, folded into a small square, has been tucked there—and Russell starts laughing, at himself, mostly, but also at Hugh for being ridiculous. He unfolds it, grinning. France has been filled with two stick figures—it looks like one of them is choking the other, but since one of them has a taco-shaped hat, he's pretty sure that it's supposed to be him fixing Hugh's collar. Or maybe Javert fixing Valjean's? Less likely, though that does make the choking a more viable option. Chuckling to himself, Russell shucks off his clothes and pins the map over his bed. A work of art, that. 

*

Valjean's soliloquy is rough. Impressive to watch, even when Hugh is running his lines as practice between takes, but Christ, Russell knows how hard it can be to pack that much emotion into a scene, especially one with long exposures. Hugh smiles when the camera's not rolling—the man's always got a smile for somebody, bloody infectious bastard—but Russell can tell it's wearing on him. At the end of the day, Russell catches him before he can head back to his trailer. 

"Fancy a drink?" he asks, light and teasing—no pressure.

Hugh blinks at him, then laughs, a little hoarse. "Yeah." A pause. "Yeah." 

There's nowhere for the two of them to sit next to each other except the bed, so that's where they sit, arms and legs touching, drinking their way through a few cans of beer. Russell jokes that a barbie wouldn't be remiss, though not quite in those words, and Hugh smiles like clockwork, but it's strained. It's easy to keep up a neutral face when people are watching—hell, that's their job—but in the privacy of the trailer, with no one to judge and a beer and a half down, the masks matter less. They can wear down until they are just themselves. No cameras here. No performance necessary. 

Russell runs a finger along the rim of the beer can. "You alright?" he asks.

Hugh rubs the heel of his hand into his forehead. "Yeah. Just, y'know. You know." 

"Yeah." Russell swishes the beer to see how much is left—not too much. He tips his head back and drains the rest before tossing the empty can into his trashcan. "Here." He crawls onto the bed behind Hugh and takes his shoulders; he starts to massage them, slowly, digging his fingers deep into the tense muscles there. Hugh groans and rolls his head. "Just take it easy," he says, gently. "I've got you."

Hugh huffs a soft laugh. "Yes, Mum." 

Russell swats the back of his head. "You'd be lucky to have me as a mum," he teases. He presses his thumbs close to Hugh's spine and bites his lip as a shudder runs through Hugh. He drops his voice. "I'm serious, Hugh. Just relax. Let it out or—not, whatever." As if it is the most natural thing in the world, he presses a kiss to the base of Hugh's skull. Hugh's sharp inhale has the edge of sound to it, vulnerable. Russell reaches around him and hooks the edge of his shirt; Hugh allows him to pull it off, leaning as he does so his shoulder blades press into Russell's chest. 

"Don't know if I have enough beers in me for this," he says. 

"Oh." Russell pauses, balling Hugh's shirt in his hands. "Yeah?"

"No, no." Hugh pats his knee. "Go ahead. You a masseur now?"

Russell drops the shirt and returns his hands to Hugh's shoulders, and he's been in the game too long to be surprised at how amazing the skin-to-skin contact feels, but he's aware of it as he massages deep circles into Hugh's shoulders and back and neck. "Maybe," he says, smiling. 

They lapse into silence, Hugh playing with his beer can and moaning every once in a while, Russell working at him. From this vantage point he can admire Hugh's body, the toned musculature, the fine points of his shoulder blades and collarbones, the small bumps of his spine at the base of his neck. It would be convenient if it was just a sexual thing or just a comfort thing or just a friend thing or just an admiration thing, but it's not—it's a jumbled fucking mess of all of those. Russell still counts himself among the lucky ones as he teases the knots out of Hugh's shoulders and neck. 

"Want to lie down?" he asks after a while, aware that he might as well be asking if Hugh is ready to go. Hugh sets his half-finished beer on the floor and slips out of his pants without asking, and Russell looks away instinctively. "Mate," he says, as Hugh lies face-down on the single. "Hugh." 

"Mmm?" 

"Are you sure you're okay?" 

"Will be," he mutters into the pillow. "G'on. You've got some good fingers on ya, Rusty." He shifts into a more comfortable position as Russell kneels over him—damn bed's too small for him to sit next to Hugh proper—and then he laughs, a bright and sudden sound that surprises Russell. "Is that our map?" he asks. He has to crane his neck to look at it properly. 

Russell drags his hands from the small of Hugh's back up to his shoulders, a steady pressure, just to see if goosebumps will rise on Hugh's arms. They do. Russell swallows thickly. "I've been meaning to ask you," he says, "about France." 

"What about it?" 

Russell begins to work again, using his weight to press his hands deep into Hugh's taut muscles. "Well," he says. Hugh groans as he pops his back, and Russell has to swallow and try again. "Well, I just couldn't tell if I'm supposed to be killing you or what." 

"Hm?"

Russell works his way across his back, kneading, deliberate, calm. "Poor Valjean's gettin' strangled, by the looks of it," he says.

"No, no, they're having a chat."

Russell chuckles. "A chat?" he repeats. Before Hugh can clarify, he presses hard against a knot in his lower back, and whatever he was going to say comes out in a long moan. This one is laced, and he covers his mouth against it and squeezes his eyes shut.  


"Shit, Russell." 

"What kind of chat?" Russell asks.

"Where did you _learn_ this?"

"Experience," he says. "Come on. Inquiring minds want to know." 

Hugh licks his lips. "This kind. Jesus." 

"Don't get so worked up," Russell says, half-joking. "Just relax."

Hugh nods and sinks further into the bed, relaxing under Russell's touch, becoming boneless and open-mouthed and exposed. Russell is hard, and it doesn't help that the massage is making both of their bodies shift, and it definitely doesn't help that he is straddling Hugh's thighs so that when he leans forward—just a little—his hips line right up with Hugh's ass. He tries to focus on the massage. Hands. Back. Shoulders. That's it—no naked thighs, no ass, no flushed face that would be scratchy to kiss. That works for all of a quarter hour, at most.

Then, Hugh turns his face into the pillow, breathing slowly. He reaches back, finds Russell's knee. He keeps his hand there, teasing it with small, repetitive strokes of his thumb that are incredibly ineffective at making Russell forget how turned on he is. Hugh sucks in a deep breath and turns his face so he can peer back at Russell.

"That's enough, mate." 

Russell bends down and kisses him. Keeping one hand firmly between Hugh's shoulder blades, he slides the other up against his shorn head, palming the curve of his skull, the short hairs prickling him. They stay like that, gently sucking at each other's lips and tongues, tasting each other's beer, sharing breath. The corners of Hugh's eyes are damp, when Russell goes to caress his cheek, but he spent all day crying so that's hardly a surprise—not a surprise, no, but still painful. Russell breaks the kiss despite Hugh's protesting grunt and kisses a line up his cheek, following the trail he knows the tears took as Hugh acted. Hugh shies away from it, his mouth crooking in a lopsided smile. 

"Geez, Russell, you want I should put on a tie wrong so you can fuss over that? I'm fine." 

This time Russell believes him. He helps Hugh turn onto his back and settles on top of him, relieved to finally be able to press his cock against Hugh's, though he could do without the clothes between them. Hugh pulls off Russell's shirt and then wraps his arms around him. He sucks at Russell's jaw and neck—lightly, careful to not leave marks, though makeup could hide them easily enough and Javert's collars are high either way. Hugh's hands skitter across his naked back and shoulders, and then he scrapes his nails along Russell's back and Russell groans. 

"Yeah?" Hugh breathes, scratching again, deliberate this time. 

Russell bends his head down and tries not to whine in response. It's not fair, what Hugh does to him. Though Hugh might be thinking the same thing—he certainly _seems_ to be thinking it when Russell finally manages to coordinate himself enough to divest them both of the rest of their clothes and slide their hips together so their cocks can grind against each other. Hugh's cock twitches, and then he bites at Russell's shoulder to fight down another moan. The casual give-and-take has taken on a more desperate edge, and soon they are thrusting against each other and panting, the sounds of their bodies loud in the compact trailer. The bed rocks with them, making the map shiver above their heads. 

Then the familiar tightness starts in his belly—Russell hisses softly and stops kissing Hugh. "I'm going to—"

"Not yet," Hugh says, so seriously that Russell wants to obey. But it's too late—his hips jerk forward and he comes, coating their stomachs and Hugh's cock. 

"Shit," Russell pants, "shit, sorry, I just—you're so fucking—"

Hugh grabs his face and kisses him deeply, his tongue wet and wanting, and he keeps thrusting, strong and needy, up against Russell's weight. "Relax," he murmurs between kisses, "it's alright. We're alright." 

Russell shivers all over; he's still dizzy from his orgasm. He leans up, though it's clear that Hugh wants to keep kissing him. "Can I suck you off?" he blurts out. 

Hugh laughs. "Sure." 

"Let me know," Russell says, sliding down his body and settling between Hugh's knees, "when you're about to—yeah—so you can come on my face."

"Jesus Christ." 

"Nah."

And Hugh starts laughing and doesn't stop, even when Russell takes him in his mouth, keeps giggling and snorting even as Russell bobs his head and takes more and more of his cock on his tongue and sucks. Even when the laughing fades into desperate pants, they're breaths lined with amusement, and he's himself again—they're fine. He's fine. Russell watches Hugh's face as it lapses into different sorts of smiles—tentative, pleased, open-mouthed with lust, gentle and frank as they meet each other's eyes. His stomach twitches and his thighs shudder. He drops his head back against the pillow and groans. "Keep—keep going," he says, when Russell starts to pull back. Russell bobs his head, taking more and more of his cock until he's almost choking, and then his nose is pressed against Hugh's hips and he's taken all of him, every last inch, and he swallows and swallows and sucks the length of his cock until the noises that Hugh are making are unholy. "N-now," he manages to stammer, and Russell pulls back right as he starts to come so the first spurt is in his mouth and the second on his lips. He licks the length of Hugh's cock as he comes on Russell's face, the hot come dripping down his cheeks and forehead.

When Hugh's finally spent, Russell opens his eyes and smiles up at him. "Atta boy," he says. He pats Hugh's thigh affectionately.

"Christ," Hugh breathes. "Look at you."

"Could be worse," Russell says, conversationally. "Trust me—I've had worse." 

Hugh starts to laugh again, leaning his head back, exposing his long, long neck. Russell wants to kiss it, but he should probably clean up first. He feels around for his discarded shirt, then wipes his face, taking care around his eyes. Then, since the shirt's going to need a good clean anyway, he wipes the come off their thighs and stomachs, and rewards himself for this with a slow tasting of Hugh's throat. 

"You can stay the night if you want," he says.

Hugh shifts to make room. "Probably shouldn't."

"Well, you can finish the beer, at least." 

"Sure," Hugh says, and stays where he is, shifting a little more so Russell can lay half on the mattress and half on Hugh. "It's the polite thing to do." 

Russell chuckles, and that starts Hugh again, and for a few minutes they can't do anything but laugh quietly and nuzzle at and touch each other. The whole thing is ridiculous, if Russell's honest, but it’s something he knows they both need. When Russell's finally stopped laughing, he mutters into Hugh's neck, "Not going to get any sleep like this." 

Hugh shrugs. "Ah, fuck it." 

"Mm." 

They lapse again into silence, and Russell begins to drift into the halfway space between waking and sleeping. He's had more comfortable beds than Hugh, but few that cupped the back of his head like this, so that's a trade-off he won’t complain about.

After a time, Hugh's voice drifts through the darkness. "You really pinned that over your bed?"

"My friend," Russell murmurs, half-awake, "I don't think you understand how much I love maps."


End file.
